


(Hook, Line) and Sinker

by raiining



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Explicit Sex, M/M, dom!Phil, light age-play, light begging, sub!clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 03:50:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1673606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil goes home after dropping Clint off at S.H.I.E.L.D. and lies awake in bed.</p>
<p>(Inspired by Harcourt's fabulous <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1124564">Hookline</a>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Hook, Line) and Sinker

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hookline](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124564) by [harcourt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/harcourt/pseuds/harcourt). 



> This fic takes place immediately after Harcourt’s fabulous fic _Hookline_ and won’t make sense unless you’ve read that first. Basically: Clint is a sub who was forced to kill people, and S.H.I.E.L.D./Phil + team were sent to take him out. Phil nearly executed him before he realized that Clint was as much of a victim as anybody, and decided to get him help instead.
> 
> Beta’d by the absolutely _fabulous_ desert_neon and soshhy. THANK YOU BEAUTIFULS!

Phil goes home after dropping Clint off at S.H.I.E.L.D. and lies awake in bed. His mattress is just as lumpy as he recalls, but it’s the running thoughts in his head that won’t let him sleep. He remembers and re-remembers the op, goes over Clint’s body language when he'd first walked into the room, and asks himself _why_ he’d been prepared to shoot an unarmed man in the face, a man lost so far down in subspace, he might as well have been a turtle.

Phil can’t come up with a satisfactory answer.

Around two in the morning, he gives up. He climbs out of bed and turns on his computer, accessing the secure S.H.I.E.L.D. server to pull up the mission report he’s just filed. He reads it over and, dissatisfied, finds the mission report he filed before that. And then the mission before that. He’s looking for a pattern, an explanation, and the longer he reads the more obvious it becomes.

The man who wrote these reports is _tired_. Something about this job is getting to him. Phil has to go back three years before he finds a report that has some spark of life in it, and has to go back even further to read when that spark had been a roaring blaze. He gives up his methodical search and clicks back to his initial report, the first one he’d filed with S.H.I.E.L.D., and has to sit and wonder at how far he’s fallen since then.

The Phil Coulson who’d written this had been _excited_. He’d been _happy_. Sure, he’d been green and, yeah, he’d been kind of an idiot, but he’d really thought he’d grown out of that, over the years.

It turns out, he hasn’t.

In the morning, Phil showers to remove the layer of sweat that’s formed on his skin and dresses with special care. Even this routine has become sloppy. How long has it been since he’s bought a new tie? How long has it been since he’s been _out_? His life has become a revolving door of work/home, work/home; with crappy food and restless sleep thrown in for good measure.

God, he’s fucked up.

Phil shines his shoes, shoots his cuffs, and walks in to S.H.I.E.L.D. He ignores his office and makes his way to Fury’s instead, knocking on the door once before letting himself inside.

“Phil,” Nick says, not glancing up from his reports. “You here to explain why there’s a man sitting in Medical who’s supposed to be dead?”

Phil takes a deep breath. “I need a vacation.”

Nick snorts. “Yeah, you and me both.”

“No,” Phil says, shaking his head. “I said I _need_ a _vacation_ , Nick.”

Nick looks up. Whatever he sees on Phil’s face makes him pause. “Aw, hell. What happened?”

Phil huffs a humourless laugh. “I fucked up.”

Nick nods. He picks up the report Phil filed last night and reads it through more carefully. He’s thinking about the words, Phil can tell, not just skimming over the key points like he usually does. They’re too busy these days, too swamped. They’ve been outsourcing intelligence and manpower. That’s part of the problem.

The other part is more personal. That’s why Phil is here.

He can see the moment when Nick gets it, the slight line that appears between his eyes, almost hidden by his scars. Phil relaxes. Nick will understand.

Nick finishes the report, flips back to the beginning, and reads it again. Phil clasps his hands behind his back and waits.

When Nick is finally finished, he puts the file down on his desk and rifles through his drawers for the appropriate form. “Do you want one month, or two?”

Phil shakes his head. “Two weeks will be fine.”

Nick looks up at him. “If you’re going to do this, Cheese, then you’re going to do this _right_.”

Phil’s lips quirk up. Nick has a point. “Okay. One month, then.”

Nick nods. He signs the paper and puts it in his outbox tray. “Are you going down to Medical?”

Phil purses his lips. “Yes,” he says. “I think I am.”

 

*

 

Clint – his last name is ‘Barton’ according to his file, but he’s already _Clint_ inside Phil’s head – is sitting on a gurney when Phil walks in, practically vibrating with restrained tension. 

The drugs he'd been given by his employers should have been out of his system by this point, but Clint’s eyes are still wide and wild, his knees bouncing up and down. Phil thinks it’s a miracle that he’s still sitting down. He looks as though he wants to be bracketed in a corner with a scalpel and a tray. That’s atypical for a sub, but Phil knows Clint’s skill set and thinks that if Clint wanted to be out of here, he’d already be gone. Some part of him must trust that S.H.I.E.L.D. has his best interests at heart.

Which is funny, because Phil had been sent to kill him, after all. 

Four members of the medical staff are huddled about ten feet away from Barton, obviously nervous about getting too close.

“What seems to be the problem here?” Phil asks. He keeps his voice calm.

Clint’s eyes find his and widen. “ _You_ ,” he breathes, sounding bewildered. His hands clench and release at his side. “You were going to _shoot_ me.”

Phil keeps all emotion from his face. “I was.”

“I’m really not okay with that.”

Phil inclines his head. “You’ll note that I didn’t, though.”

“Right,” Clint grouses. “Lucky for me you got cold feet.”

“So it would seem,” Phil agrees. “Did you get any sleep?”

Clint’s eyes dart around the room. “Why the fuck do you care?”

Phil takes another step closer. “I didn't kill you, which means I now have a vested interest in your survival.”

Clint makes a face. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.” When Phil doesn’t respond, he shrugs and answers the question. “I slept. Kind of. It’s fucking cold down here.”

That’s true. Medical always keeps its offices on the cooler side. It’s for the surgical suite, Phil understands. “It is. Do you want me to get you a blanket?”

Clint licks his lips. His knee stops bouncing, pauses, and starts again. “Yes. No. Whatever. It’s not like I care.”

“The choice is yours, Clint.”

“Yeah, well,” Clint says. His eyes dart away from Phil, to the medical team, and back. “Whatever you want.”

That’s a little more typical. Phil hasn’t had to comfort an injured sub in longer than he can recall, but he remembers the basic steps. “I want you to have a warm blanket, Clint.”

“Sure,” Clint agrees. His hands relax from the fists they’ve been at his sides. “Okay.”

Phil nods towards a member of the medical team and she hurries away, darting to the warming cabinet that’s kept in the back. She returns with two piping hot blankets and hands them to Phil. 

Phil walks to Clint’s side. He keeps his steps slow and tries to project calm assurance. Clint’s reacting like a sub who’s been through significant trauma, if a little more uncharacteristically than most. Injured subs usually feel uncomfortable making decisions. They want and need to be cared for. Clint hasn’t had anyone care for him in a very long time. Phil remembers how easily Clint had obeyed complete strangers during his capture, how quickly he had capitulated at the smallest sign of kindness. 

Phil wraps a blanket around Clint’s shoulders. “There. Is that better?”

Clint nods. This close, the exhaustion on his face is plain to see. His shoulders slump under Phil’s hands as though he finds human contact – or maybe Phil's presence in particular – subconsciously comforting. That’s worrying, but Phil doesn’t stop him when his eyes drift close and he tips forward into Phil’s chest. He jerks awake when his forehead brushes Phil’s collar bone, but then he blinks and tips forward again.

Phil should find someone else to take care of him, someone infinitely more qualified, but instead he slides closer and puts his hand around Clint’s neck, pulling him down. He lays the other warm blanket across his knees. “There you go.”

Clint exhales, giving up. He leans his forehead against Phil’s chest and goes pliant in his arms. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome,” Phil says. He looks over Clint’s shoulder to where the medical team is hovering. “The doctors want to take your vitals now, Clint. It’s standard post-mission procedure. Is that okay with you?”

“Sure,” Clint says, his words slurring. He’s dropping, Phil realizes. “That’s fine.”

Phil nods and keeps his hand on Clint’s neck as a member of the team steps forward. It’s the nurse who’d brought him the blankets, a tiny _s_ pinned to her chest. She starts by gently touching the back of Clint’s hand and then placing the O2-monitor on his finger. The rest of the team hangs back. At a glance from Phil, the nurse takes Clint’s temperature with an ear thermometer and then carefully wraps a blood pressure cuff around his arm.

Clint shudders, but doesn’t move, just presses his forehead a little harder into Phil’s chest. Phil raises his other arm and holds him close, rubbing tiny circles into the skin behind Clint’s ear. “Shh, there we go. It’s okay. You’re doing very well, Clint.”

Clint trembles. “I don’t know where I am.”

“You’re in S.H.I.E.L.D. Medical.”

Clint huffs. “Yeah,” he agrees, with an audible undertone of _duh_ in his voice, “but what does that _mean_?”

Phil smiles at the sarcasm, but doesn’t move. “It means that when the staff is done, we’re going to want the names and identifications of the people who did this to you. It means that when we get them, we’re going to make sure they don’t hurt you, or anyone else, ever again.”

Clint licks his lips. “And after that?”

“After that, you’ll be free to go. You can do anything you want.”

It’s obviously the wrong thing to say. Clint tenses. He moves to shrug off Phil’s arm but Phil stops him. Clint doesn’t need choice right now, he reminds himself. He needs orders. Shifting his hold, Phil grips the short strands of hair at the back of Clint's neck and jerks his head up. 

“It means,” Phil tries again, locking eyes with Clint, “that you are going to stay here and let the medical staff treat you. You are going to get – ” he looks to the doctor who bites her lip, does some quick calculations, and then holds up three fingers – “three needles, to combat various deficiencies and immunological issues in your body. After that, you’re going to sleep. You will wake up, eat a full meal, and if you can do that, Clint, if you can do that for me, then when you talk to the investigators about the people who did this to you, I will be there at your side.”

Clint’s breath hitches. He gives Phil a look of wary hope. “You will?”

Phil nods. “I will.”

Clint swallows. “Three needles?” He’s aiming for grousing and missing by about a mile. “That’s a little excessive, don’t you think?”

Phil can’t help but smile. “Three needles,” he repeats. “You can have the smiley face bandages after, if you want. If that will make you feel better.”

“Ha, ha,” Clint grumbles. “Fuck you.” But he’s smiling slightly, too.

 

*

 

Clint’s as good as gold and better. He endures the shots and the fussing of the medical department, drinks a bowl of warm soup that’s designed to be gentle on his stomach, and goes to bed. It’s just a cot in the corner of Medical, but Phil piles him high with warm blankets and Clint turns over only once before passing out.

Phil goes back to his office and dozes on his couch, waking when the medical team buzzes him. “Agent Coulson? Mr. Barton is awake.” 

Phil swings his legs over the couch. “Doctor Yin. How is he?”

Yin hums. “Better. Clearer. He needs a shower, but he doesn't want one. I think Medical is too big for him. He's twitchy, he keeps peering into corners, and he nearly bolted when we had a Code Blue earlier. That's what woke him up, actually.” Yin pauses. “He's got the worst case of sub-drop I've ever seen. Short term, he's dealing, but long term...”

Phil frowns. He leaves his office and decides to bypasses the elevators, heading for the stairs. “I know. He's been under for a long time. His entire view of what is and isn't acceptable sub behaviour has been shot.”

Yin sighs. “Yeah. I've told Fury that we need a psychiatric wing.”

“I know.”

“It was in my annual report last year.”

“I _know_.”

“Well, I don't know what else to tell you. He should be kept under observation and needs to be monitored for self harm, but I can't keep him here. I'm not equipped for this.”

Phil exits the stairwell. “What's your recommendation?”

“I don't know. I've got a colleague who specializes in abuse cases. I'm going to give her a call. For now, you should keep him under observation.”

Phil pauses in front of the double-doors that lead to Medical. “I will.” He turns off his phone. “Hello, Clint.”

Clint scowls as he drops from the ceiling. “How did you know I was there?”

“I always look up. I hear you need a shower.”

Clint wrinkles his nose. “I'm okay.”

Phil takes a delicate sniff. 

Clint scowls. “Okay, _fine_.”

“Thank you.”

Phil stands guard for him. Clint seems overly impressed by the hot water. “Thanks,” he mutters when he comes out, towelling roughly at his wet hair. 

“Food’s this way,” is all Phil says, and leads him in the right direction. 

It’s early yet, not quite three o’clock. The cafeteria is nearly empty. They’ve missed lunch and the dinner rush has yet to start. Phil gets Clint a little of everything – mostly orange jello, chocolate pudding, and a couple of perogies. He tries to find things that are easier on his stomach but have more flavour than what Medical tends to provide. Clint hovers over the plate with his spoon half raised, and Phil realizes that he’s overcome with the selection.

“I like the pudding,” Phil says, keeping his voice even through sheer force of will. He dips his spoon into the second cup he’d brought for himself and takes a bite. He’d missed lunch by napping on his couch.

“Chocolate is good,” Clint agrees, but hesitantly, as if he’s not entirely sure.

“Very,” Phil says.

Clint keeps shooting Phil looks throughout the meal, glancing at Phil when he finishes one plate and before he reaches for another. He’s waiting to see if Phil’s going to take it away from him, Phil realizes. He clenches his toes inside his boots to keep the anger from his face, since he’s pretty sure Clint would misinterpret it. He wonders if he can get on the team that will be responsible for finding the people who did this to Clint. 

Later, when Clint's quietly telling the investigation team everything that happened to him, Phil wonders if he’d have the fortitude to handle it. He decides he doesn’t. If he went on that mission, Clint’s captors would be coming home in body bags.

That’s what this was, Phil thinks grimly. Captivity. He listens as Clint describes his kidnapping, how long they had him for, and what techniques they used to keep him down. 

Clint tells them everything, talking almost without inflection, and he keeps talking, even when the words obviously hurt to say. Phil catches the soft undertone of _I wasn’t good enough so they had to_ and _I tried but I couldn’t so then they needed to_ that demonstrates over and over again how fucked Clint's headspace has become.

“That’s enough,” he finally says, when it’s clear that Clint’s exhausted but that he’s not going to stop. The investigator is looking a little green around the gills, and Phil’s stomach is tied up in so many knots, he’s surprised his meal is staying down. He wants to wrap Clint in a soft blanket and never let him go. “That’s very good, Clint. We have enough for now.”

The investigator nods and stumbles to her feet, clearly overwhelmed and needing to leave, but Clint just sighs and tips forward again. Phil catches him before he face-plants into the table. He’s aware of the investigator beating a quick retreat, but most of his attention is on Clint. “You need to sleep again.”

Clint nods without looking up. “I know.”

“I’ll speak to Agent Services,” Phil tells him. “Someone will find you a bed.”

Again, it’s the wrong thing to say. Clint sits up. Despite his obvious exhaustion, his eyes dart around the room. His breathing hitches and Phil knows that his hands are clenched. He’s hyper aware, jumping when Phil places a steadying hand on the back of his neck.

“Down,” he commands, pressing slightly. 

Clint resists for a moment before he sighs and goes. 

Phil only means for him to relax, but Clint actually goes down, sliding off his chair and onto his knees, graceful even when he's clearly exhausted, somehow managing not to brain himself on the table. He kneels at the foot of Phil’s chair and keeps his eyes on the ground. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“That’s okay,” Phil says, keeping his hand on the back of Clint’s neck. Dammit, he's being too forceful. His own instincts are fucked up. It’s been too long since he’s done this, and Clint is too beautiful and needy at his feet. “I gather you don’t want a room to yourself at S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Clint shudders, but he shakes his head. “No, sir.”

Phil licks his lips, letting himself rub tiny circles into the back of Clint’s neck with one hand. “If you like,” he says, thinking, “I could take you home with me.”

Clint goes breathless with hope. “You would do that, sir?”

He really, really shouldn't. Clint's obviously not thinking clearly, but Phil can’t help himself. “I would.”

Clint glances up, looking optimistic but unsure. “You must have better things to do.”

Phil smiles. “I don’t, actually. As of this morning, I’m officially on leave.”

Clint tilts his head, confused. 

“I almost put a bullet in your brain,” Phil tells him, not mincing words. “I’m not okay with that, either.”

Clint’s lips quirk in a quiet half-smile. He bows his head again, but this time there’s less mindless obedience and more real submission in the gesture. He waits a beat, and then says, “I’d like to go home with you, sir.”

Phil nods. “Okay,” he says. “Come with me, then.”

Clint rises gracefully to his feet and waits, staying the traditional half-step behind Phil as he makes his way out of the building. He swings by his office to pick up his briefcase and file the last few case notes he’ll have to go over while he’s away. Clint hovers in the doorway as Phil logs out of his computer and bends over to pull the plug out of the wall. He glances over his office, checking to make sure nothing urgent has been left behind. “That’s good. Let’s go.”

Phil leads the way to Lola and introduces her to Clint before shuffling Clint inside. “What do you want for dinner?”

Clint lifts his eyebrows as they drive away from S.H.I.E.L.D., obviously considering. “I’m not sure. What’s good?”

“Chinese food,” Phil says, and places the order as they drive. He stops at Madame Q’s to pick up their food and leaves Clint idling with Lola on the curb. When he gets back, Clint is fiddling with the radio, running the dial through the FM spectrum.

“Stop that,” Phil says, gently slapping Clint’s hands away. “It’s classic rock or nothing.”

Clint shoots him a grin that looks half normal. “A man after my own heart.”

They get home and Phil parks, giving half the food to Clint to carry while he leads the way up the stairs. It’s only when he turns the key to his apartment that he realizes how long it’s been since he’s brought someone home.

The place is a mess, full of dirty dishes and dust, and Phil curses to himself while he swiftly cleans things up. “I’m so sorry,” he says as he hurries, stacking plates and swiping surfaces. “Give me a second.”

Clint stands in the doorway and chuckles, looking far too amused at Phil’s expense. Phil scowls and loads the dishwasher. “And stop that.”

“At least I know that everything in your life was falling apart,” Clint says. “It wasn’t just me.”

“It wasn’t just you,” Phil admits.

It doesn’t take long to get his apartment straightened out. He’ll need to put a new set of sheets on the bed and make up the guest room as well, but the apartment is hardly beyond repair. He hopes he can say the same about himself. “Now,” Phil says, straightening, “bring that food over here.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint says, but his lips quirk as he carries the bag over. Phil gets some utensils and they pile the food on the coffee table in the living room. As soon as the smell hits him, Phil’s ravenous, and he spills fried rice everywhere in his haste to load half of it onto his plate. 

Clint’s nearly as messy as he is, his usual grace deserting him as he inhales wonton soup faster than Phil can follow. “This is good.”

“Don’t talk with your mouthful,” Phil admonishes, smiling when Clint rolls his eyes. “And yes, of course it’s good; why do you think I have the menu memorized?”

“Because you absolutely never cook?” Clint guesses, glancing over his shoulder towards the kitchen which, Phil has to admit, doesn’t look quite as lived in as the rest of the apartment. “I bet that second drawer on the right is filled with nothing but take out menus and broken dreams.”

“None of your sass, boy,” Phil says, the endearment slipping out. “Cooking will obviously be your job, then.” His brain finally catches up to his mouth and he tucks his chin in embarrassment. “If you want to stay, that is.”

Clint shrugs, looking purposefully nonchalant. “Until you get sick of me, sure.”

Phil doesn’t think it will happen, but he doesn’t want to make a promise he might break. “Okay, then.”

They finish eating and tidy up. By then, whatever energy Clint’s been running on has clearly been tapped, because he’s starting to droop significantly. Phil hasn’t managed to make up the spare bedroom yet, so he directs Clint to his room and bundles him under the blankets.

“Sleep well,” Phil says, and straightens to move away.

Clint rolls on his side and reaches for Phil’s hand. “Wait. Stay. Please?”

His voice is quiet, but honest, and Phil hesitates. He really shouldn’t. “Okay,” he finally says, and carefully crawls into bed behind Clint. “Just until you fall asleep.”

“Okay,” Clint echoes, and presses his back against Phil’s chest. “Thank you.”

Phil gives in and brushes a hand fondly over Clint’s hair. “You’re welcome.”

 

*

 

Phil wakes in the morning to find that at some point during the night he’d draped himself over Clint. He shifts, trying to extract himself as gingerly as he can. Clint stirs and Phil stills, waiting until he settles. Phil doubts that someone with Clint’s history is usually this comfortable slipping back into sleep next to a complete stranger, but then something in Clint’s brain seems to have latched onto Phil as 'safe.'

Which is unsettling as much as it is flattering. 

Phil goes to the kitchen and opens the fridge. Clint had been correct in his assumption that Phil rarely, if ever, cooks. There’s nothing in his fridge except expired mayonnaise, a few packages of ketchup, and a six pack of beer. It’s not even good beer. Phil sighs and lets the door fall closed again.

“What do you usually do for breakfast?” Clint asks. 

Phil looks over his shoulder to see Clint leaning against the open doorway, blinking sleep from his eyes and looking adorably mussed. Phil cracks a smile. “I don’t usually eat any. I just grab a coffee on the way to work and sometimes a bagel.”

“Okay then, bagels it is. Do you know a good spot?”

Phil shakes his head. “We’re not going out for bagels. I’m on leave and you, well, when’s the last time you had pancakes drenched in more syrup than you could stand?”

Clint cocks his head. “Pancakes as in plural?”

“That answers that question, then. Get your jacket. We’re going out.”

Phil takes them to a diner he knows around the corner. The coffee is passable, and the home-fries are lukewarm, but the pancakes are _fantastic_.

“Oh my god,” Clint groans, though Phil notes that he swallows first. “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

“Heaven would have better coffee,” Phil grouses. He catches Clint’s eye and smiles. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it, though.”

“Mmmmm.”

Clint eats an impressive number of pancakes. He starts eyeing the exits about halfway through, though, as if he’s planning to dine and dash. Phil gives up wondering how many times he’s done exactly that. “This is my treat, by the way. You can eat as much as you like.”

Clint throws him a suspicious look. “This isn’t a _date_ , Coulson. I’m not your goddamn charity sub.”

“Regardless,” Phil says with a shrug. “I picked the restaurant, which means I get to pay. You can get the next one, if you like.”

“Yeah?” Clint mutters under his breath. “And what should I pay with, exactly?” 

“With the cash we’re giving you to spill on your previous employers,” Phil tells him. At Clint’s surprised look, he narrows his eyes. “You _did_ read the documents you signed yesterday, didn’t you?”

Clint shrugs and avoids his eyes. “I don’t read so good, and it was legal-speak to boot. Plus, the way I figure it is, you guys were going to kill me. Anything better than that is bonus.”

“Bonus. Yes, well,” Phil feels another headache coming on, “be that as it may, the documents you signed stipulate that in exchange for your cooperation in this endeavour, S.H.I.E.L.D. will not only pay you for your time and effort, but also help get you settled into a new career of your choice.”

Clint’s shoulders hunch. “Good on them,” he mutters.

“Mm,” Phil agrees. Privately, he thinks ‘Hawkeye’ would be a perfect fit for S.H.I.E.L.D., but that won’t be his call. “Do you want anything else to eat?”

Clint shakes his head and devotes the rest of his attention to devouring his last stack of pancakes. Phil pays the bill and directs them home. 

They spend the rest of the day in Phil’s apartment. Clint is obviously trying to find his place. He’s awkward about it, and glances at Phil for permission before sitting on the couch or making a cup of tea. He alternates between basking in Phil’s attention and shouting at him to back off.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he says, when Phil offers him a sixth slice of pizza for dinner that night. “I’m _full_. Stop being such a goddamn mother hen!”

Phil wordlessly takes a step back, and doesn’t say anything when Clint crawls to his feet that evening as Phil’s sitting on the couch. Phil just buries a hand in Clint’s hair and soothes him while he shakes against Phil’s leg. Lots of subs prefer to sit at the feet of their doms, but Phil doesn't know if this is normal behaviour for Clint or not. He's not sure how to handle it. 

“Do you want to sleep in the guest room tonight?” Phil asks, once they’ve watched a mindless hour of TV and the dishes are done.

“Of course I do,” Clint grouses, even though it’s unsteady. He stalks to the bedroom and slams the door, but still crawls into bed with Phil at two a.m.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispers, shaky and needy and so goddamn young. “I just – ”

“It’s okay,” Phil tells him, rolling over and offering Clint his arm. Clint scuttles closer and buries his head against Phil’s chest. Phil strokes a hand up and down his back, soothing him, and falls asleep with Clint’s _I’m sorry_ still whispering against his skin.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Phil asks the next morning over coffee.

Clint scowls down at his mug. “I just couldn’t fall asleep.”

Phil lifts an eyebrow and waits. 

Clint shrugs, one-armed and stiff. “It’s been a while since I slept on a bed. I tried to sleep on the floor, but I just couldn’t do it. I’m sorry for waking you. I guess I’m still pretty out of it. I can take my stuff and g– ”

“You don’t have to go,” Phil interrupts, putting his mug down. “Clint, you – ” He takes a deep breath. “You don’t. I told you that I didn’t have anything better to do, and I meant it. You’re welcome to stay here for the month that I’m on leave if you like.”

Clint licks his lips nervously. “Are you sure?”

“I am,” Phil tells him, and then adds, “I’d like it if you stayed.”

Clint takes a deep breath. He nods. “Okay. I will.”

 

*

 

It's a difficult month. Clint and Phil fumble through finding their own dynamic. Yin's colleague helps. Phil calls her on the second day and they talk through different options, going over a few scenarios. Phil's afraid of fucking things up, of breaking Clint more instead of helping him put himself together, but Dr. Wang assures him that just by being there, he's helping.

Mostly, they decide to give Clint the freedom to discover the kind of sub he wants to be. Things have changed a lot in the past forty years, but not all organizations are as forward-thinking as S.H.I.E.L.D. The Army still refuses to acknowledge same-dynamic couples, after all, and it isn't an uncommon attitude. Phil's worked with subs who've acted like doms most of the time, and he knows that what someone wants in bed doesn't always determine how they behave in real life.

It’s been a long time since Clint’s had the chance to explore his options. He alternates between sitting on furniture, sitting at Phil’s feet, and kneeling at his side for dinner. Phil takes the opportunity to spoil him. It's been too long since he indulged his dominant side, and it feels good to help Clint cook, go shopping with him for clothes, and remember how to give the small reassurances that mean he’s pleased by Clint’s behaviour. Phil starts to smile more, begins joking again, and it’s only when he’s feeling half-way normal that he realizes just how depressed he’s been.

It takes time, but Clint starts to thrive. He finds his own rhythm and begins indulging in his sarcastic side. “If you beat those eggs any more, I’m going to get jealous,” he snarks, and, “if you’ve decided to be picky, you could just have said.” Phil likes it. It would be easier if Clint were rediscovering a person Phil couldn’t stand, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. By the end of their month together, Phil is loose and relaxed and himself again, and also completely in love with Clint.

He’s not sure if Clint feels the same.

Clint obviously _likes_ him, but Phil can't be sure of anything more. The problem is that Clint’s gone from an abusive, untenable situation, to Phil. Phil knows that _anyone_ would look perfect in that comparison. He doesn’t want to take advantage of the situation. He doesn’t want to be Clint’s rebound dom. 

They need to talk about it. Phil’s month of leave is up and he’s already told Nick that he’s not going to ask for an extension. “I’m going back to work,” Phil tells Clint, the Friday before he’s scheduled to start.

“At S.H.I.E.L.D.?” 

Phil nods. “There’s a place for you in the organization, if you like.”

Clint grimaces but doesn’t disagree. Nick had walked up to Phil’s apartment to present the offer of employment to Clint in person. “We’ll have to put you through basic training,” he’d said, “and get a feel for your skills, but I've been reading up on your confirmed kill list. There's a rumour you don't miss.”

“I _never_ miss,” Clint had growled.

Nick had smiled. “Is that so?”

The challenge has been good for him. Clint had used a chunk of his first check to buy himself a bow. Phil had told him that if he signed on with S.H.I.E.L.D. they’d make him his equipment to spec, but Clint had shrugged. “No matter what happens, it’s good to have something that’s mine.”

He’s practised daily since then. Phil loves watching him, even if it _is_ dangerous to his self-control. When he shoots, Clint's natural grace is on full display. He picks his target, narrows his eyes, and grasps his bow. His thighs tense, his shoulders strain – the sight makes Phil want to lick his way across Clint's muscles. 

So far, he’s resisted.

“I know they want me to join,” Clint tells him now. “But if I sign up, I can’t stay here any more.”

“No matter what you decide,” Phil tells him gently, “I don’t think you should stay here any more.”

Clint nods, looking resigned. “You’re tired of me.”

Phil smiles. “It’s completely the opposite, actually. I don’t – Clint, look at me.” He waits until Clint exhales and glances up. “I will _never_ get tired of you. God, the things I want to do to you... If I had fewer scruples, I’d have you naked at my feet right now, tied up and begging for my collar.” 

Clint’s eyes flash with heat, but behind that, he looks scared. Phil focuses there. “But you’re not ready for that, and frankly neither am I. I’ve forgotten how to be a good dom. You’ve reminded me, but to collar you now would be a breach of trust. I never should have taken you home with me. That was selfish, and wrong. I don’t regret it, but I can’t compound the error now. You have to get out and be on your own for a while. We both do.”

Clint’s hands clench into fists, before relaxing again. “Fine. If you say so. Do you want me gone tonight?”

Phil sighs and leans back. He doesn't know what else to say. “No. Sunday is fine.”

The weekend is difficult. Clint is obviously walking on eggshells around him. Phil tries to keep him calm, but where Clint usually relaxes into Phil’s little touches, he tenses now. Phil decides to back off. He’s obviously only making things worse.

On Sunday night, Clint leaves. He’s accumulated a rather significant amount of stuff in the time he’s been living at Phil’s place, most of it clothes. He packs it all into several duffel bags and holds the bow he’d bought in one hand. “Well, this is it, then.”

Phil still doesn’t know if Clint has accepted a position at S.H.I.E.L.D. or not. This doesn’t seem to be the time to ask. “It is,” he agrees, “at least for now. Or, ‘for now’ if you want it to be.”

Clint rubs a tired hand over his face. He spent the night in the guest room, and Phil knows neither of them have slept. “I don’t like anything about this,” he sighs, “but you’re not entirely wrong. You’re not entirely right, either.”

Phil has to smile. “I’ve learned to re-recognize what that feeling is like. You’ve helped me to remember.”

“Yeah, blurring the lines between grey and grey. That’s me.”

“More like, reminding me that there are right things, and there are wrong things, and there are still things in between,” Phil tells him. “You were one of the right things. You continue to be.”

Clint offers him a smile. “Thank you, I think.”

“Good luck, Clint,” Phil says. He offers him his hand.

“Good luck, Phil,” Clint says. He shakes it.

Phil watches Clint’s back as he leave. He turns around after Clint's steps have faded and returns to his apartment to close the door. He leans against it when he does, wondering if he’s made the right call.

He doesn’t sleep at all that night.

 

*

 

The next six months are difficult. Phil shuffles his team around. He’s grown to like Agents Gillian and Danson and Kelley, but Clint’s kill-order has changed things between them. They’d all gotten a bit of a wake-up call that day, but to different degrees. Danson has moved on to interrogative investigation, Gillian to single-field strike missions, and Kelley back into the general pool. Phil has taken Nick up on his offer to focus on larger scale operations, and has been using his new perspective to go over mission directives with a fine-toothed comb.

It’s satisfying work, and he feels happier than he did four weeks ago. He leaves the office at a reasonable time and when he’s not in the field he focuses on bringing some life back into his apartment. He misses Clint when he cooks and folds clothes and sits on his empty couch, but at least his take-out orders have gotten healthier. 

It’s a start.

Clint waits three days before signing a general contract with S.H.I.E.L.D. He spends the first month being put through his paces, and the next three being trialed on the ground. He passes every test S.H.I.E.L.D. can throw at him, which Phil knows because Maria comes by twice a month to gloat. Nick is getting credit for his recruitment, but Maria is his SO in the field. Clint’s scores are blowing every other recruit’s out of the water.

“He’s going to make level five within three years,” Maria boasts. “You just watch and see.” 

“I’m confident that he will,” Phil agrees. He’s wandered by the range a few times to see Clint in action. It had been completely accidental, which Phil is ready to prove to anyone who asks. So far, no one has. “He’s doing very well.”

“He’s exceptional,” Maria counters. She shakes her head. “To think we almost iced him, too.”

Phil hides his shiver. He still has nightmares about that. “I know.”

He never sees Clint face-to-face. For the first few months that had been honest avoidance, but now Phil doesn’t even need to try. Clint is far too busy being S.H.I.E.L.D.’s new darling to go out of his way to find Phil. Phil’s learning how to be okay with that.

It’s stupid. _He’s_ the one who had asked Clint to go. He’d suspected that this would happen, that Clint would get his feet underneath him and realize that he could do so much better than Phil. He shouldn’t be this hurt that it’s happening.

He is, though. It’s unfortunate for him.

More unfortunate is the day Phil sees Clint in the cafeteria. He must have just gotten back from a mission, probably somewhere warm, because his skin is tanned and golden brown. Phil catches himself staring and has to shake himself or risk losing his place in line. Clint is throwing back his head and laughing, and Phil wants so badly to lick his way up the side of his throat that his hands start to shake.

He thinks he avoids Clint’s attention, but to his surprise Clint joins him later when Phil’s sitting down.

“Hey, sir,” he says, sounding slightly nervous. “How’s it been going?”

“It’s going well,” Phil tells him, clenching his heart around how _good_ it is to hear Clint call him ‘sir’ again. He’d missed that. “How are things with you?”

“Good,” Clint says. He ducks his head. “I guess you knew that, though. I hear Hill’s been telling tales out of school.”

“Only a little.” Phil smiles. “Maria’s proud of you and how far you’ve advanced. So am I.”

“Yeah?” Clint asks. “Thanks. You know that that’s mostly due to you.”

“No, it’s due to you, _Agent_ Barton. S.H.I.E.L.D. seems like a good fit for you.”

“It is,” Clint admits. He glances away before looking back and meeting Phil’s eyes. “It, uh, could be better, though.”

Phil’s heart misses a beat. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, uh,” Clint says. He licks his lips. “Do you think – ?”

“Barton,” Maria calls, coming over. “Sit-rep, my office. Hurry up. You’re ten minutes late as it is.”

Clint grins, glancing up. He looks honestly fond. “It’s something called ‘food,’ Agent Hill. Some of us require it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Maria grouses. “None of your sass. Get moving, Probie.”

Clint rolls his eyes but stands up from his chair. “You do realize that I’ve passed all my exams, right?”

“Uh-huh,” Maria says, grinning. “You’re still a probie until I say you’re no longer a probie, Barton. Sit-rep. Get on it.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Clint mocks, tossing her a salute. “Oh Captain, my captain.”

“Sass,” Maria says, looking over at Phil and smiling. “Nothing but sass.”

“And a fantastic a– “

“ _Sitrep_ , Barton.”

“Yes, sir.”

Phil laughs and shakes his head. Maria walks away. “You’d better get a move on,” he tells Clint.

“I will,” Clint tells him, his smile lingering. “I just – I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Okay,” Phil agrees, smiling back. “Whenever you like.”

“Thanks,” Clint says. “I’ll – I. Thanks.”

 

*

 

Phil’s honestly not expecting to see Clint anytime soon, so he’s surprised when, that afternoon, Clint knocks on Phil’s office door. “Hey. It’s me again.”

“Come on in,” Phil tells him, hurrying to stand up. “Um. Welcome. Do you need anything?”

Clint holds up his S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued pad and a stylus. “Just a place to crash while I do paperwork. I have about a million of these electronic things to sign. Would it be okay if I stayed here?”

Phil gestures to the couch in his office. “Make yourself at home.”

“Thanks,” Clint says, not reacting to Phil’s blush. He toes off his boots and collapses onto the couch. “Mm, comfy. Thank you, sir.”

“Of course.”

Phil sits down in his office chair. He spends ten minutes staring in vain at his computer screen, trying to get his mind to focus, but his eyes keep darting to Clint. He half expects the mirage to disappear, but it doesn’t – Clint just flexes his toes and hums to himself, occasionally tapping on the screen. Phil shakes his head. He tries to pretend that they’re back at Phil’s apartment, hanging out together like they used to on a good day, Clint relaxing while Phil worked through his steady stream of paperwork, reduced since he was on leave but by no means gone. 

It works, eventually. Phil loses himself in the details of a complicated mission prep, and when he leans back to stretch he realizes that several hours have passed.

He looks over at Clint, who’s still working on the couch. “It’s nearly five and I’m getting hungry. Do you want anything?”

Clint looks up and smiles. The pad tips forward, and Phil can see that Clint’s finished his assigned work and is playing games. “I could eat. Should we go to the cafeteria, then, or do you want dinner somewhere else?”

“Cafeteria, I’m afraid,” Phil says. “I still have another objective to see to and I don’t want to leave tonight until at least the preliminaries are done.”

He half-expects Clint to make an excuse at that and leave. Surely there must be better things for him to do the night he’s back from a mission than hang around the office with Phil, but Clint only nods companionably. He stands and follows Phil into the hallway. “This is for the op in Madrid, right?”

“It is,” Phil agrees. “You heard about that?”

“I was brought in last-minute to Toledo,” Clint explains. “I could tell right away that it was your work. It was very detailed.”

“Obsessive,” Phil corrects with a smile. “It’s okay for you to say it.”

“‘Neat,’ is the word I would choose.” Clint grins, but the look in his eyes is shy. “It was good. It made me feel safe.”

Phil glances over. “I know there’s a good chance you’ll end up somewhere one of my ops has put you. I want to make sure everything possible has been prepared.”

Clint’s smile grows. “I’m glad,” he says, and presses his shoulder into Phil’s as they walk. “Like I said, it’s comforting.”

They get into line and take their trays. It’s vegetarian kebabs and meatloaf tonight, but that’s okay because Gaetanne has made it all from scratch. The retired field agent runs the S.H.I.E.L.D. cafeteria. “They don’t feed you enough on ops,” she complains, serving Clint two huge slices of meatloaf. “You’re getting skinny again.”

Clint laughs and ducks his head. “Hill doesn’t cook for me like you do.”

“Sweetheart, ain’t nobody can cook for you like I do.” She tosses a wink Phil’s way. “Agent Coulson, you’ll look after him, won’t you? He needs some fattening up.”

“I’ll do my very best,” Phil promises with a smile. He likes Gaetanne. “But I’m not exactly a gourmet cook.”

“Honey, don’t I know. I remember the one op we went on together. My colon has yet to recover.”

Phil blushes and Clint laughs. They choose a table together in the corner. “What did you do?” .

“Tried my hand at gumbo stew,” Phil admits. “We were in Louisiana and it… didn’t come out right.”

“Oh no.” Clint grins. “The key to gumbo is the base. If you can make that solid, then you’re gold.”

“I think the problem was that I made it _too_ solid. Also burnt.”

Clint laughs.

After dinner they walk back to Phil’s office. Clint collapses onto the couch again. Phil tries not to hurry, but he also doesn’t linger over his report. He gets the preliminary work out of the way and it only takes him until just after seven.

“There,” he says, logging off of his computer. “Done.”

“Good job, sir,” Clint says. He smiles. “I’m glad you finished for the day.”

“I don’t want to have to worry about this later. I want to be able to just, um – ” Phil bites his lip and glances over at Clint.

Clint climbs slowly to his feet, his expression hopeful. “Leave it at the office?”

Phil drinks in the sight of him. He’s still here. Despite having finished his own work hours ago, Clint’s still here. “Yes.”

Clint nods and takes a step closer. “You wouldn’t want to be distracted on the drive home.”

“Absolutely not,” Phil breathes. He closes the distance between himself and Clint and, hesitating, reaches out to place his hand on the back of Clint’s neck. “Tell me what you want.”

Clint shudders and bows his head. “Please take me home with you, sir.”

“Yes,” Phil agrees. His hand tightens and Clint whimpers. Before Phil can react, Clint slides to his knees. Phil’s mouth goes dry. “Good boy.”

Clint swallows and leans forward, bracing his forehead against Phil’s thigh. He breathes. Phil buries his hand in Clint’s hair. They stay like that for a minute before Clint nods once and stands. 

“Home. Now. _Please._ ”

Phil nods hurriedly and ushers Clint out of his office. They speed walk down the corridor and out to the garage. Lola is waiting for them in Phil’s customary spot, and Phil runs a hand over her dashboard to calm himself. He’s not going to drive recklessly and wreck his car. He’s _not._

Once he’s got himself under control, Phil puts a hand on the gear shift and looks over at Clint. “Seatbelt?”

Clint snags it with one hand. “Done.”

Phil drives them home carefully, being watchful of his lead foot. He stops correctly at every light. Phil catches himself drumming his hands on the gear shift and grimaces. 

Clint looks over and grins.

They make it to the apartment and Phil parks before hustling Clint out of the car and up the familiar stairs. At the door, Phil pauses. This is so much like old times, but different, too. He takes a deep breath in, exhales, and reaches out to take Clint’s wrist in one hand. “Now is the time to tell me to stop, if you want me to.”

Clint’s eyes darken. “I don’t want you to.”

Phil groans and drags Clint towards him, crowding him against the door. Phil leans in, licking Clint's lower lip and demanding access. 

Clint opens his mouth with a sweet sigh and surrenders. Phil kisses him long and hard and deep. “Inside. Take off your clothes. Now.”

Clint bites playfully at Phil’s lip. “Take off my clothes now or get inside? I’m confused, sir.”

Phil chuckles into Clint’s mouth. Clint is submission and snark, perfection and irritation. He is everything Phil wants and everything that he’s missed. “Get inside and _then_ take off your clothes, boy, or I’ll make you wait out in the hallway instead.”

Clint shivers and fumbles at the door. He gets it open and tumbles insides, dragging Phil in behind him. His cheeks are flushed and Phil can’t help but want to keep him close, resting one hand on the small of Clint’s back and keeping the other hand wrapped around his forearm. He never, ever wants to let go.

Clint drops his boots on the welcome mat and starts tugging off his jacket. Phil lets him, but when Clint moves to unbutton his shirt, Phil suddenly changes his mind, shaking his head and pulling him into the bedroom. “I want to do this right.”

Clint groans and inclines his head, offering his mouth to Phil. Phil takes it and buries both hands in Clint’s hair, tugging him into the perfect position. They kiss wetly, Phil diving his tongue into Clint’s mouth.

Clint moans. He sounds like sex itself. “Right is good, let’s do this right, but not _slow_. Fuck, sir, I’ve wanted this for so long. You can do me slow next time.”

Phil growls, low in his throat, and attacks the buttons of Clint’s shirt. “Next time,” he pants, getting enough buttons undone that he can slip a hand inside Clint’s shirt and stroke along his golden skin, “next time I am going to make you _beg_.”

“I’ll beg _now_ ,” Clint whines, rolling his shoulders. “Fuck me, sir, _please_. Please, I’ve dreamt about this. I want you. Don’t make me wait any longer than I already have.”

Phil pushes Clint onto the bed and climbs over him to straddle his hips. “Be careful,” he warns, throwing open Clint’s shirt and leaning forward to bite his shoulders. “You sound too good when you beg. I might decide to go slowly after all.”

Clint makes a high pitched sound, arching his hips off the bed. He bites his lip to cut off the sound and stares at Phil, his eyes wide and dark. Phil reaches a down and opens his slacks, reaching inside to stroke himself while grinding his ass down onto the full hardness inside Clint’s jeans. 

Clint thrusts his hips up. He opens his mouth but clamps it shut before he can make a sound. 

Phil chuckles. “You can talk. I honestly don’t think I could stop you without a gag, and I love the sound of your voice.” He leans forward and takes Clint’s hands, placing them above his head and pressing them down onto the sheets. He’s not particularly into bondage – he’d have to negotiate that with Clint ahead of time, especially with his history – but he does so love to be obeyed. “But keep your hands here for me, okay? Like a good boy.”

Clint presses his wrists back into the mattress. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I can be good, sir.”

Phil smiles. “I know you can be. You can be so good for me. And you’re going to, aren’t you?”

Clint nods frantically. “Yes, sir. I will. I’ll – ohh!” He gasps when Phil flicks open the button of his jeans. “Oh, please, sir, yes!”

Phil wraps his fingers around Clint’s cock. He gives it a gentle tug, freeing it from the jeans and Clint’s boxer-briefs. “Mmm. Yes. That’s good. You’re being very good for me, Clint.”

Clint jerks his hips. “All for you, sir. _Please_.”

“Please what, Clint?”

Clint groans. “Please make me come, sir.”

“Hmm.” Phil leans forward, bringing his own cock in line with Clint’s, rubbing the skin of their shafts together. “Is that what you want?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re being very good for me, Clint. Look at you, keeping your hands just where I told you. So very, very good.”

“All for you, sir,” Clint pants, hips stuttering, his cock forcing itself into Phil’s hand, rubbing along Phil’s shaft. “Just for you.”

“Yes, for me. Just for me, Clint. You’re such a good boy for me, you always have been.”

Clint whines. Phil continues to stroke them both together, his cock and Clint’s, lined up side by side. 

“So good for me,” Phil babbles, “so good, ever since that first night. I’ve wanted this for so long, Clint. So many nights lying beside you. I wanted to turn you over and push your knees up. I have lube in my drawer and, oh god, I wanted to fuck you so bad.”

Clint groans, clearly beyond words. His eyes are closed and his mouth is open. He’s panting, his hips are jerking, his cock is hot and heavy in Phil’s hand. Phil can feel it when he goes tense, when he goes that extra little bit hard.

“Yes,” Phil tells him. “Yes, that’s it.” He jerks them both harder. “Come for me, Clint. Come on.”

Clint gasps. Come spurts out of his cock, landing on his stomach, painting the golden skin white. Phil groans and leans over, jerking his own cock harder, coming with a grunt on Clint’s chest.

“Fuck,” Phil swears, feeling dazed. He runs a hand through the messy splatter. “Fuck.”

“Nuuugh,” Clint agrees. He rolls his hips into Phil’s hands. “Mmmm.”

Phil chuckles and leans over, pressing a closed-mouthed kiss to Clint’s lips. “Did you like that, my boy?”

“Yes, sir,” Clint sighs, happily. “That was good. It’s been a long time since it was so good.”

“It wasn’t too much?”

Clint shakes his head. “No, not with you. I trust you.”

Phil can’t stop his smile. “You always have. It’s my job to prove worthy. I worry that I haven’t done a very good job.”

Clint shifts, cracking one eye open. “What? Why would you say that? You’ve been wonderful.”

Phil bites his lip. “I really shouldn’t have taken you home with me. That was unprofessional.”

“Maybe,” Clint admits, shrugging with one shoulder, “but I can’t regret it.”

Phil can’t either. He kisses Clint again. 

It doesn’t last long. After a few minutes, Phil leans back. Clint moves to sit up, but Phil puts a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. You just relax. I’ve got this.”

Clint blinks, looking adorably mussed. “I can – ”

“Let me look after you,” Phil tells him. He climbs off the bed and pauses to run his cleaner hand through Clint’s hair. “I like looking after you.”

Clint smiles softly. “Okay.”

Phil gets a glass of water and a warm washcloth. He gives Clint the water while he carefully cleans them both, rolling Clint over when he’s finished and tucking him into bed. 

“You’re joining me, right?” Clint asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“Most definitely,” Phil tells him, kissing him once between the shoulder blades. 

He refills the water and places it on the bedside table, then slides into bed and wraps himself around Clint. “There. Better?”

“Mm,” Clint agrees, and nestles more firmly into Phil. “I like this.”

“Me, too,” Phil tells him. “I’m so glad that you came back. I never thought you were going to.”

Clint smiles without opening his eyes. “Of course I came back,” he says, and then, later, when Phil’s nearly asleep, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Phil presses a kiss to his shoulder. “Good.”

 

The End


End file.
